Yours, Always- Johnlock
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: Sherlock returns and John freaks out, determined to forget him, until he reads a letter Sherlock left for him. Will they be able to reconcile? Of course they will, but not without angst. I OWN NOTHING!


**A/N: Hello, my darlings! I know it's been an eternity, but I've been crazy busy. I have managed to fit a bit of writing in, in the little spare time I've scraped out between things, so it's not much, but I promise you'll be hearing more from me in December. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this fic (which came out to 3,333 words exactly, weirdly) and if you want to let me know what you think, I'll be happy to hear it!**

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><p>It was a numb John Watson who held, read, and reread the letter he'd found under his pillow, undoubtedly left for him in the hours between when he had left 221B Baker Street that morning and when he'd returned to find the dark-haired genius he'd once called friend standing at the window, staring out with his hands clasped behind his back as if nothing had happened.<p>

When he'd turned around, they'd stared at one another for a long moment, and then it had sort of all gone sideways, all at once. John had started yelling, giving Sherlock no chance to explain—_how could he explain away what he'd done?_— before launching into a tirade that, if he thought about it now, would probably embarrass him. But he wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking about the letter he clutched so tightly he half-feared it would rip, the letter he wasn't quite sure how he should react to.

For all that Sherlock was normally excruciatingly long-winded, the letter itself was fairly simple. Was Sherlock still abnormally verbose when he chose to be? John wasn't sure, and that hurt almost as much as the words that were blurring… no, it wasn't the words blurring. _Obvious_. His eyes were filling with tears, and he finally set the letter aside so it wouldn't smudge if he lost composure completely and actually began crying.

He'd cried a lot, over the past years. The most depressing years of his life, and he'd thought he was wounded when he came back from deployment a broken solider with a psychosomatic limp. He'd only known how wrong he was when Sherlock had jumped… or not jumped. He realized that now, he couldn't be sure what it was that had really happened. He knew only that he'd seen what Sherlock had wanted him to see, and that thought made him sick.

Eyes dry again, he found himself reading that letter again, wishing that he knew what to say or do. He'd thrown the man out without allowing him to gather his things—which were, embarrassingly, still exactly as he'd left them—and told him never to come back. _No, you told him he never _should have_ come back. Big difference. You basically told him to stay dead._ Ignoring the voice in his head that sounded annoying like Sherlock's, and had for longer than he cared to remember, John sank down into his arm chair and let himself read it again.

_This was my betrayal: That I, knowing your feelings, allowed you to continue on loving me, knowing what I was and not caring. That I did not save you, that I in fact relied on your unselfish affection, your unconditional devotion, and used it to sustain me even as it drained you. I let you sacrifice a part of yourself knowing how very unlikely it was that I would ever return it. _

_ And then, the worst betrayal of all: I fell in love with you, knowing I would never give you back to yourself willingly because I could not bear to let you go. I fell in love with you, and damned us both. And so I came to ask your forgiveness for things you couldn't yet understand, might not understand even now, and I will accept the rejection I deserved but, in my arrogance, didn't truly expect. And yet I will leave this selfishly, to let you know that I will always be waiting for that forgiveness I will never truly earn. _

_ I will stay away, John Watson, but will never stop hoping that you will find me anyway, though we both know that I am not good for you. Half of me wants you to fall back in with me anyway, while half of me wants desperately for you to stay away and be happy. In the end, both parts love you, and decided it was for you to choose. In the interim, I remain:_

_Yours, always_

He hadn't signed it, but probably hadn't seen the need. He'd left only a handful of hours ago, and when John had finally calmed himself down enough to convince himself that sleep was a good idea, he'd found this letter under his pillow, and immediately wished he was here in person saying these things. Maybe he would have been, if John had let him speak. But he hadn't, and now he had a problem.

Did he want him back? Could he stand to know that he'd been lied to all that time, that Sherlock had betrayed him and _known_ what it might do to him but done it anyway? How could he _not_ wish for him back immediately, when all he'd wanted for so long even before the Fall was the love that the letter promised him? It was all so confusing, and the only man in the world who might be able to help him puzzle it out was gone now, goodness only knew where, and John had no way to… _But we both know that's not quite true_.

John fumbled for his phone, but it rang even as he picked it up, and when he held it to his ear, it was the person he'd meant to call anyway. Which made the obvious question spring out of his mouth, sudden annoyance a far more likeable replacement for his previous feelings of confusion, doubt, and severe pain.

"Mycroft, are you still watching me with your damn cameras?" John was scowling at his phone, even though the other man might not be able to see him, and the politician let out a long-suffering sigh audible through the line.

"Hardly. My brother has simply informed me that he requires other lodgings while in London until he gets his affairs here in order, and requested that I offer him one of my safe houses, as I 'owe him,' as he so eloquently put it. I took that to mean that your reunion did not go as he had hoped, and merely wished to call and make certain you are doing well. I also had a hunch that you might have a rather important question for me, after some time passed, and wanted to reassure you that I would be more than willing to answer it, whenever you're ready, of course."

John had grown used to Mycroft's long-winded declarations that boiled down to a simple offer of help, so he waited it out, timing it absently by the watch on his wrist as he'd taken to doing. Only a little over a minute. It was rather short, for a Mycroft speech, and John realized he'd decided to cut to the chase, as much as he ever could.

"I need a way to contact him. A number, an address, just… _something_. When he was here… I didn't take it well, and I didn't think it through, and he didn't leave me with any way to get in contact with him."

"You already have his number, Doctor Watson. It's the same number as before. But, as I doubt that will quite satisfy you, the address is 112 St. John Street. If you'd like to visit him, you might go there, but I imagine that, were you so inclined, a simple text would summon him back to Baker Street."

John chose not to comment on what he was sure was one of Mycroft's little jokes—_St. John Street, honestly—_and instead hung up, knowing he didn't need to bother with pleasantries. Mycroft wouldn't expect them, after all the times John had hung up on him, and he needed his phone for what he was about to do next.

A deep breath, and then another, and he finally felt ready to send the text he'd never expected to send. It was oddly fitting, though, so he didn't let himself think about it too much.

_221 Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway ~J.W._

He felt a little strange adding his initials as a signature, but wasn't sure if Sherlock would know his number still. And now that it was done, nerves were beginning to set in, and he realized that his rather daring opening gambit would probably make Sherlock assume he had more confidence than he currently possessed.

But when the former consulting detective showed up at the door, knocking politely this time, he lingered in the doorway with wary eyes, watching John as if he might take a swing at him. That had very nearly happened, earlier. John tried not to think too hard about the fact that Sherlock was watching him with mistrust in his eyes, something he'd never imagined he'd receive from his best friend. _That was before you threw him out for being alive and then called him back a few hours later as if you can't make up your mind. That makes you a wild card, and Sherlock clearly is no longer a fan of wild cards._

"You texted?" That deep, sonorous voice he'd missed so much seemed to ring not just through the flat, but through his very bones, and John had to resist the urge to shiver. He'd had more dreams about that voice than he cared to admit—it was one of the few details he'd never once feared forgetting—but nothing really prepared him for hearing it in person again after so long.

"Yes. I… come in, then. No need to stand there in the doorway." Sherlock raised an eyebrow but slowly complied, his eyes flitting over every detail of the room and John, taking in information, until at last they found the letter. His lips curved into a smirk that the doctor somehow knew was self-depreciating, and then he took a seat in his old chair, steepled his fingers, and returned his complete attention to John.

To say that having the full weight of those eyes on him was a little daunting would have been a gross understatement, and John Watson wasn't in the habit of lying to himself. At least, not since the Fall. So he had to suppress the desire to slouch or duck his head as he made his way over to his own seat, picking up the cup of tea he'd left beside it with a rock steady hand. That, of course, would be a dead giveaway to Sherlock that he was highly agitated even now. The taller man didn't even look at his own cup, no matter how much he'd missed the doctor's tea.

"What did you want to see me about, John?" Dark velvet sky surrounded John for a moment, as he was reminded just how much that voice could sound like a caress in the right setting. But there was hesitance in his voice, something that had never been there before, uncertainty that the doctor wasn't going to throw him out again now that he was here. It was unlike Sherlock to show up anyway if he considered that a possibility, and that, more than anything, left him wondering just how much his best friend had changed.

"I… I got your letter. Under my pillow, where I used to keep my gun. Not the cleverest hiding place, really." John waited for Sherlock to reply, but when he didn't, he sucked in another deep breath and kept going. "Sherlock… did you mean those things you wrote?"

It was the genius's turn to look away now, looking highly uncomfortable with the conversation if the way his hands had fallen to his sides and fingers were now tapping restlessly at the armrests was any indication. When he caught John watching he hastily stilled his hands as if he had forgotten, in his time away, how to keep his tells to himself. Wherever he'd been, he mustn't have been all that worried about people watching him. The battleground he'd been on clearly hadn't borne any resemblance to the urban one he adored in London.

"I neither say nor write things I do not mean, John. I can assure you that those words are genuine. All but one thing. I cannot do this to you again." Sherlock rose and was halfway to the door before John reacted, barely making it there before the defeated-looking consulting detective. He barred it with his body, earning a look of surprised hope before Sherlock looked down at his feet, not able to face John.

"You were correct, earlier, to throw me out. John… you're better off without me. It was wrong of me to return hom… _here_, and wrong of me to leave that letter." Sherlock sighed then, closing his eyes and shaking his head against the tears that threatened. He hadn't thought it would be so hard, but he knew he had to do the right thing. He'd given his faithful friend so much pain, and the only reasonable thing he could do was let him go, if he cared for him at all. He was tired, so very tired, and knowing he didn't deserve the man he'd sacrificed very nearly everything for left him feeling hollow. When he returned to Mycroft's safe house he could rest, he promised himself.

"Sherlock, I'm not sure what you're on about, but this isn't you. The Sherlock Holmes I know would never have left without making me sit through a full explanation of everywhere he'd been and everything he'd done, and he certainly wouldn't have taken no for an answer when it came to affection. If he wanted something, he took it."

Sherlock's lips twisted again, into a pained grimace, and he tried to find the words that would let him let John go. He'd realized, after John had rightfully tossed him out on his arse, that love sometimes means knowing the person you love will never be yours, and learning to accept that because you want the absolute best for him. And he clearly was not the best John could hope to attain.

"Perhaps the Sherlock Holmes you knew is dead, John. Life is not what I thought it was. Nothing is. My intellect failed me when it counted most, and I… I can't do this with you, John. I can't let you take me back in knowing what I've done to you. I wrote that letter before I realized… just how badly you'd been hurt… and had I known, I never would have left it here. It's just another way in which I have betrayed you."

John grasped his chin and tilted his head up forcibly so he could stare into those eyes, but they were so drenched in misery it took him a few seconds to realize he'd stopped breathing. He forced himself to resume the important function—he couldn't speak without breath, after all.

"Sherlock, did you mean those words? Just answer me, and don't complicate it. Yes, or no."

"John…" Silver-blue-green shimmering with pain, Sherlock looked at the doctor, knowing this was the last time he could allow himself to see him. If he remained in London, he wouldn't be able to keep himself from seeking him out. He would have to leave, go… elsewhere. He wasn't sure where yet, but he knew that if he let himself stay here, it wouldn't be long before he was right back at this door, begging for love he had never deserved and never would.

"Sherlock…" Realizing that the taller man was quivering like a cornered animal, and seemed prepared to flee at any moment, John abandoned words, knowing they could talk all night and he might never get a clear verbal answer. But there was more than one way to answer this particular question, and as John tangled his fingers in those inky curls and brought their mouths together, he realized this was the only answer that would suit them both. They always had been men of action more than words.

Though he'd never been inside a hurricane, Sherlock imagined this was what it would feel like. There was a roaring in his ears and he seemed incapable of moving from where he stood, trapped in a frozen moment while the world around him seemed to collapse all at once until there was nothing else, nothing but John Watson's surprisingly soft lips coaxing his into life, tugging away his resistance until they melted into one person, one body and soul and mind that was screaming for more even as their hands found gentle holds: John's, in Sherlock's hair and on his hip, and Sherlock's on John's shoulders.

They might have stood there forever, kissing and staring into each other's eyes, had it not been for the cheery inquiry from Not-Your-Housekeeper Mrs. Hudson downstairs. It jolted them apart, and they stared in shock before the most improbable thing happened. John Watson began to laugh, unrestrained and free, and rested his forehead against Sherlock's chest, holding onto him even after he got his breath back again.

"I don't want you to go, Sherlock. I think I stopped caring about what was good for me or bad for me regarding you a long time ago, maybe even from that first night. You're the most infuriating, amazing person I've ever met, and I won't lose you again. If you leave me, I'll simply follow you. We both know that Mycroft would help me keep up with you, or at least stay not too many steps behind, and you can't run from this forever. I won't let you go, even if you could find the strength to walk away now. So don't try, please. Don't drag this out when we both know how it ends—or rather, doesn't end."

Sherlock had never been as torn as he was in that moment, but John just sat there, and now it was _his _eyes that were piercing and seeing through him and tearing him apart, reminding him of how much he'd changed, how much he was willing to give up to see this one, seemingly insignificant man happy. _How could he ever be happy with me?_ But John was asking him to stay… it was unacceptable to hurt him again, yet it seemed like no matter what he chose, he would be hurting him. Now, or down the road.

But John was in his arms, and now that he knew the taste of those lips—_lips his shouldn't have met like this_—he knew there was no real chance to walk away now. He would be forever haunted by that kiss if he couldn't have another whenever he wanted it, and the truth was, he was so tired of being away from John, his blogger and doctor and friend and partner and only love.

"I should let you go, John. I'm too selfish, though, no matter that someday you might well hate me for this. Like I said in the letter, I would spend the rest of my life waiting for you, waiting for redemption…"

Sherlock knew just how little he sounded like himself, but nothing seemed to matter but the fact that John was looking up at him with a shaky but radiant smile on his face, eyes sparkling and full of love, offering him a taste of the redemption he'd half-begged for.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, cariad?" The tone of voice Sherlock used made it quite clear that it was an endearment, and John decided that he would ask where he'd been, and what he'd done, later. Right now, though…

"I'm yours, always, too." Then John carded his fingers into Sherlock's hair and pressed their mouths together before the genius could object, but quickly found out he'd had no plans to argue. Their mouths devoured each other's hungrily, lips and teeth and tongues warring though they both knew that, in this great game, they would both be winners. And as they stumbled to the bedroom, clothes flying through the air, their last conscious thought was the same: _What did I ever do to get so lucky?_ After that, for a long time, there would be no more thoughts. And they were both okay with that.


End file.
